


Vintage Purple Roses

by blueberrysebby



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Florist Aziraphale, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, but are they really, gomensficweek2019, tattoo artist crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 03:50:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrysebby/pseuds/blueberrysebby
Summary: Mr Fell is about to make a delivery that changes everything - back.





	Vintage Purple Roses

** Vintage Purple Roses **

“Fell – who’s speaking?”

He’d only just made it to the old melamine telephone.

“Ah, good afternoon Dr Gabriel. What can I do for you?”

He grabbed a small dishevelled notebook and a pencil. While listening, he started chewing on the end of the pencil, noticing that he could definitely use something to nibble.

“_Vintage purple roses_, Sir?!”

He screwed up his face.

“At this time of year that’s…”

He held his breath while the doctor talked over him. 

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do. Where’s that one supposed to go then?”

He had already pressed the pencil tip into the paper but then let it drop onto the wooden work table with a soft ‘tick’.

“Opposite roadside it is, Doctor.” He smiled a forced smile. “I’ll be hearing from you then? Yes. Bye.”

When he hung up the speaker of the tarnished phone, Mr Fell noticed that he felt very jittery, and what had been an appetite before was now nausea. He swallowed and rubbed his hands on his chlorophyll-stained pale blue apron. He made to stand up and walk from the back of the shop to the window. He balanced his way through the vases and pots and peered out through the leaves of a large philodendron. To his astonishment, his glance fell directly onto another face. From a shop window on the other side of the road, a pair of wide golden eyes stared unblinkingly back at him. They made him immediately uncomfortable. He looked up. ‘Snaky J Tattoos’ was sprawled in winding letters above the shop door and window. Mr Fell had never noticed the tattoo parlour before. Was it new?

He cast his eyes to the teal tiles and muttered “young people…”, then he turned, letting the philodendron leaves swish back into place, and resumed cutting carnation stems in the back of the shop, Handel playing on the grammophone.

Two hours later he was in bed with a cup of lavender infusion, thinking about the golden eyes, and they followed him into his dreams along with the feeling that somehow, he knew them.

When his alarm clock shook him up at 4 a.m., he remembered no such thing. All he knew was that he had to be at the central flower market at 5. So he shuffled his feet out from underneath the warm duvet into his white fluffy bunny slippers – he had bought himself those for his birthday in October, and no one but him would ever get to see them, he knew that – and walked to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast tea. He had a vanilla Danish left from yesterday, which he dunked with relish, bite by bite – that much time had to give. He stretched wearily and went to brush his teeth and give his white-blond hair that special curl at the front. When he smiled at himself in the mirror, he wasn’t quite in shape yet, but they were getting there. He put on his pistachio-green tweed suit he always wore to the market, checked if he had everything and went out through the shop door, cruising off in his dust-grey Citroen type H from 1959. He was unaware of the pair of eyes following him from across the street.

A little less than two hours later he returned and unloaded several large bundles of flowers – some late dahlias in a dark reddish orange, more carnations in cream, light purple and pale pink, a handful of black calla lilies that had somehow appealed to him although he generally rather disliked dark, gloomy flowers. He also had some potted poinsettias, too, white ones, since it was already the end of November. Lastly, he produced a batch of twenty vintage purple roses from the trunk of the van, carried them inside and laid them carefully down on the work table. 

After nibbling a piece (or three?) of white chocolate and brewing a pot of tea, he got to work. He gave all the flowers fresh cuts and placed them in those large dark green plastic vases near the shop window, put the poinsettias on a shelf above the counter and then dedicated himself to binding the roses into a large bouquet decorated with baby’s breath and glaucous eucalyptus leaves. Suddenly the baby’s breath’s tiny white blossoms seemed to leave their stems and swarm about his head in twinkly trembly constellations. Mr Fell clung to the edge of the counter or else he would have toppled over. A sudden twisting pain in his gut made him clench and bend over the work table with a miserable wince. He felt as if he could no longer breathe. The cramp stopped after a few seconds but seemed to linger still, and he drew back a chair to sit down, bent over, clutching his knees and breathing flatly. His head was still spinning. There was a high-pitched whirring in his ears that wouldn’t break off; it was rather as though it got ever louder in the utter silence of the shop. Which was suddenly splintered by someone rapping on the glass door. Mr Fell wanted to shout that it wasn’t open yet, but he was unable to move, not to speak of using his voice. As soon as he had as much as recovered his breath, another stabbing pain caused him to shrink into himself against the table with a jerk, throwing over the teacup and hearing it shatter on the stone floor, making him flinch a second time. Suddenly his entire body seemed to hurt. He started crying. Someone knocked again, stronger this time, and moments later Mr Fell could hear the doorbell being stirred, and steps on the tiles.

“Mr Fell?!” a voice sounded, uneven, like a random mixture of upper- and lowercase letters. Mr Fell could only whimper as the second fit began to slowly subside.

“Mr Fell!” Now the voice was louder and a good deal more anxious.

“Here”, Mr Fell pressed out, his cheek still flat against the table, unable to move.

The steps came closer and a head appeared above the counter, groaning “goodness no”, and then Mr Fell felt a hand on his trembling shoulder.

“Mr Fell, are you alright?” A pair of golden eyes appeared in his sight, in the middle of a high-cheekboned, handsome face partly covered by strands of long red hair. “Ugh what am I asking, of course you’re not, Az-, uh, Mr Fell, what on earth is wrong?”

Mr Fell raised his head a little.

“I…who are you?”

“You, uh- I’m Anthony J Crowley, Sir, owner of Snaky J’s. But…what”, he made an exasperated gesture and fell silent.

“I…” Mr Fell tried to get his voice not to tremble but he was in too much pain still, “I don’t know. I was binding the flowers and suddenly…” He winced as another wave of sharp pain coursed through his body.

“The flowers”, Crowley muttered. “Were they meant for anyone special?”

“A-as a matter of fact…” Mr Fell pressed his eyes shut, “they were for you.”

“M-me?!” Crowley sputtered. “But you d-“

“From a certain Dr Gabriel. He’s”, he drew a deep breath and sat up a little, “he’s one of my best customers. _The_ best actually. Has me do flower deliveries every day to all sorts of people.”

He gazed up at Crowley who was inspecting the purple roses.

“Ooh Aziraph- uh, Mr Fell, Sir, those are – Dr Gabriel you say?” He turned to face the florist. “Oh that darn bastard.”

He took off his shiny black leather jacket, revealing a lanky torso in a cropped, riveted dark grey t-shirt. Mr Fell’s mouth fell dry for a moment. Crowley wrapped the rose bouquet into his jacket and stuck it under his arm.

“Mr Fell, I need to get you out of here. You need help. And I can only help you over at my place.”

Mr Fell gave him a pained, puzzled look.

“How do you think you could…” But he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Another wave, stronger than the ones before, made his body cramp and pushed all air from his lungs, and when the pain lessened he sobbed uncontrollably. Crowley wasn’t going to watch one second longer.

“Come here now”, he said, slinging an unexpectedly strong arm around Mr Fell below his armpits and hoisting him from the chair. “Work with me a bit, will you, I’m trying to save your life.”

“Save my-“ Mr Fell gasped as he struggled to his feet.

“Yeees”, Crowley drawled exasperatedly. Then he wordlessly half dragged, half pushed Mr Fell past the counter and through the shop out of the door. It was still early morning, and a steady, drizzly rain had set in, so the street was empty. They crossed it and walked over to the tattoo parlour, Mr Fell’s knees sagging with every step and Crowley catching him as it happened, then leaning him against the shop window while he unlocked the door. “Come in.”

Inside, Crowley heaved Mr Fell onto the old black dentist chair and let the back rest down.

“Now try to lie still and relax. You had black calla lilies over in the shop, did I see that right?”

Mr Fell nodded and added a soft “why?”, but Crowley was already back out the door. He returned with the lot of them, vanished in a back room and finally brought in one black calyx cupped in his hands. He was about to hand it to Mr Fell when the latter was shaken by another burst of pain, rolling into a ball on the chair and cough-sobbing, hands clenching around the arm rests. This time it took almost half a minute until it began to relent, and then Mr Fell sank back and gazed at Crowley with red eyes and trembling lips.

“Mr Crowley, I-“

“Now now, Mr Fell. Sit up for me, will you, and drink this.” He held out his arms so the florist could pull himself up. Crowley put the calyx to his lips and tipped it slowly so Mr Fell could sip. Whatever was in that calyx tasted just like water, but made his limbs relax at once, as though washing the pain from his veins, and his head stopped swimming. The high-pitched sound faded. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily. Crowley bent over him while the florist’s eyes were closed, and as he stood bent and listened to his odd patient’s breathing becoming more peaceful, with nothing but the rain’s steady ripple outside, his own cold hand suddenly grazed that of Mr Fell, and the latter’s eyes flew open, his breath hitched and he muttered:

“Mr Crowley, I think I…I know you.” And after a small silence he added: “I just don’t know how. Why.”

Crowley looked at him and Mr Fell suddenly felt very soft.

“Look, Azir- uh, Mr Fell, I…”

“My name’s Arthur, by the way”, said Mr Fell, obliviously, and stretched out his hand. Crowley grasped it and said in the same moment:

“No it’s not.”

As soon as Crowley held his hand, a wave of images ran past Mr Fell’s inner eye, and when the tattoo artist placed his other hand gently on his forehead, that wave became a flood. For a moment he was utterly lost in it, but then everything came back. He had been an angel once – was he still one? They had thwarted Armageddon, but what then? How long had all this been going on? There was one gap, one black hole in his memory that stayed, like a broken bridge. He opened his eyes.

“Crowley”, he whispered. “Oh heavens, Crowley.” And he reached up and pulled Crowley into a hug so tight it seemed like he never wanted to let go again.

“Aziraphale”, mumbled Crowley. “Or is it still Arthur?” He chuckled. “My stupid angel.”

Aziraphale wanted to laugh, but it got stuck in his throat.

“But am I still an angel, Crowley? Am I?”

“I…” Crowley stuttered, “I uh…are you? I don’t know!” His voice broke and suddenly there were tears in his golden eyes.

“Are you still a demon then?” asked Aziraphale.

“Technically yes”, replied Crowley, “but only because Heaven wouldn’t take me back and there’s nowhere further to fall from Hell. They wanted to discorporate me, but I…” He broke off again.

“You what?”

“I had to find you, Angel.”

“Find me? But…where was I gone?”

“I don’t _know_!” Crowley exclaimed desperately, throwing his hands up. “Why don’t _you_ remember? Did they brainwash you or something?!”

He stopped short. Aziraphale blinked. Swallowed. Slowly started nodding, at first tentatively, then more vigorously.

“I”, he muttered, “I think they might have.” He looked up at Crowley, who was still in his shirt, his skin cold as snakeskin, his eyes wide and amber. Aziraphale reached up at the nape of Crowley’s neck and softly pulled him down towards him, until they were so close their eyes couldn’t focus, and then their faces touched. It wasn’t quite a kiss, their brows pressed together, their noses oddly angled, their breaths on each other’s lips but nothing more, lashes fluttering, setting free a furtive tear that rolled and mingled between their cheeks, and while Crowley bit his lip and smiled, Aziraphale’s tears would not cease all of a sudden, and he shook in Crowley’s arms, though soundlessly, and Crowley could feel him, all of him, all of his thoughts and memories, and there it was all back – they had taken all his memory, of the past days, years, millennia, his knowledge of being an angel, had wiped him anew each night, enslaved him in this little shop to sell and deliver miraculous flowers, not by his own volition, but unbeknownst to him, a mere tool to Gabriel. And he had made him suffer too. Before today already. Crowley saw cruel customers, lack of sleep, allergic reactions to Aziraphale’s favourite flowers, cuts in the angel’s hands, vases and pots that were made to weigh ten times their actual weight, and recurring unspeakable nightmares and burning pain that would haunt the angel at night but that he could never remember when he awoke.

Suddenly Aziraphale stirred and whispered against Crowley’s cheek:

“However did you find me here?”

“I – I don’t know. I followed my instincts. The clearest stream of air.” He smiled. “Looks like I can smell you miles against the wind, Angel. But it still took me almost three months.”

“How did you escape Hell?”

Instead of an answer, Crowley tilted his head to the right, and only now Aziraphale saw that the little snake tattoo on his cheekbone was flaming red.

“I cut ties, so to say”, Crowley said. “Made my powers weaker, but I’m still here, I guess. Less snaky perhaps, but not dead at least.”

“And they can’t find you now?” Aziraphale was still unsure. But Crowley just shook his head. “They can’t. Never.”

“Was the…powers thing why you needed the flower?”

Crowley looked confused for a second but then he followed.

“The black calla lily?! Oh yes. They are ascribed powers of healing and resurrection. I needed some…support there, you see, Angel?”

“Oh dear, Crowley”, the angel sighed, sounding very humbled. “I wonder if the bouquet was meant to harm me or you, or both of us.”

Crowley chuckled sarcastically while the Aziraphale finally sat up on the reclined chair.

“Probably both of us. Now that I’m only half a demon, Heaven can spy on me without inhibition. I just don’t know why they would.”

Aziraphale was silent, but his eyes shone wet again. He pressed his lips together and sniffled quietly.

“What is it, Angel?”

Aziraphale shook his head defiantly, but Crowley laid his arm around him and squeezed him a little, as though to encourage him, and the angel opened his mouth and mumbled almost inaudibly:

“Because you mean the world to me, Crowley.” He peered up at the taller demon and added slowly, when Crowley didn’t speak: “Because they know that if I destroyed you…I could not live with that knowledge.” And it was as though through this, suddenly Gabriel’s entire ruse bloomed open in Aziraphale’s mind. “They would have made me remember, once I’d done this…and then they would probably have made me fall. And I would have had the rest of eternity with nothing and no one but the knowledge that I killed you.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale. His eyes expressed all from sadness over outrage to incredulity.

“You know”, said Aziraphale, gravely, “Hell are a noisy, smelly lot, but deep down I don’t think they care, because they don’t have this disgusting sense of superiority that…” he blinked nervously, “that I, too, used to have. They know that they aren’t holier-than-thou. And that makes them more…human, in a way. Although of course they’re not actually human. Heaven would…they would do anything to prove they’re right. Anything at all.” He scooted away from Crowley with a sore look. “But I can’t have you hurt.” He suddenly felt very weak in his knees, but forced himself to get up from the chair and walk a few steps ahead. “I…I must leave you now, Crowley. And I must make you promise me that no matter what, you will not come close to me ever again. Or let me come close to you, for that matter.” He swallowed and looked Crowley square in the eye, and it was meant to be intimidating but he looked miserable. His voice was shaking when he said: “We’re enemies, remember?”

He screwed up his face for a moment, as if he had to convince himself to jump blindly into an abyss, then turned away without another look.

It all went so fast he was almost out the door before Crowley could stop him.

“Angel!” Crowley hurtled after him and grabbed his arm. “Angel, wait!” Aziraphale refused to turn for a second, squeezing his eyes shut like a child crossing the living room on Christmas Eve.

“I didn’t think I’d ever say that, Angel, but now you’re going too fast for me. Much too fast.” And after a little silence he added: “Almost as though you didn’t want to see me again. Ever.”

At that, the angel opened his eyes and looked at Crowley, and they both knew that no matter what, nothing could part them. Ever.

“Angel, come back. Sit down. I…I think I”, he pulled the angel towards him by the hand, “I have a solution.” And with a smirk he added: “This isn’t a tattoo parlour for no reason.”

Aziraphale gazed wide-eyed at him.  
“What do you mean? There’s-“

“Do you trust me, Angel?”

“I”, Aziraphale stuttered, but then he looked at Crowley and couldn’t contain a smile that grew ever wider as he noticed the absolute tranquillity and confidence in Crowley’s expression.

“Yes, Crowley, I…I trust you.”

Crowley smiled back and Aziraphale giggled. He had no idea what Crowley was planning, but he was so glad at the sudden turn of events he didn’t even care. He just let Crowley drag him back into the shop and place him against the chair.

“Stay here, Angel. Right here.”

And he rushed away in his hip-hugging shiny skinny trousers, only to return seconds later with a dangerous-looking tool that resembled a gun.

“So”, he began, slightly out of breath, looking nervous. The gun-like thing trembled in unison with his hands.

“I can…mark you, so to speak. Makes it impossible for Heaven to track you down.” He smiled encouragingly.

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide again.

“How do you…”

“I can’t explain it”, Crowley admitted. “But I can do it. Have done it before.”

“When? How?”

“Ethereal beings of all kinds, you know. There’s not just us. There are what nature religions perceive as gods or demigods, I-“ He paused while nervously rubbing up and down the gun-like thing. “I marked their skins with symbols. Like my snake. I just…” He broke off again and just looked into Aziraphale’s eyes until the angel’s skin started to creep. Then he smiled sweetly and, poking his tongue out, lifted one hand to Aziraphale’s collar and started to unbutton him cumbersomely. After what must have been a minute of silent trembly breathing and the sound of rainfall, Aziraphale showed some mercy and assisted him, although he was just as shaky. But two shaky hands were still better than one.

Half an hour later, Aziraphale’s right collarbone was adorned by a scarlet red mark in the shape of a dove. When Crowley lifted the needle and let him look at it in a handheld mirror, the angel was rather incredulous.

“That was it? Already?”

“Yes, Angel. That was it.” He looked up. “I hope it didn’t hurt too badly.”

“Not half as badly as my nightmares recently”, sighed the angel. “Why a dove?”

“Because that’s the animal I see in you”, Crowley said simply, and Aziraphale left it at that.

“So I’m what – half demon now?!” He smirked mischievously in that way that Crowley had never seen any other angel smirk.

“You know what?!” he said. “I believe you’ve always been rather more half demon, Angel. All the other angels I know have some…gold stuff on their bodies, or purple eyes or something, but you – you never had that.”

“Oh but I do, Crowley”, corrected Aziraphale, and blushed slightly. “Just not…in my face.” He paused, then complicatedly opened the rest of his shirt, sat up and pushed the fabric aside, revealing his chest and tummy.

“Look”, he said, glancing up at Crowley, who was mildly distracted by the amount of milky skin just bared, “do you see these?” And he traced a finger over two long, pale golden, slightly raised, scar-like lines running across his ribcage on either side below his chest.

“They have always been there, for as long as I can remember this body. But they used to be far more, well, golden and shiny. Now you can barely see them at all.” He pushed the fabric back into place to hide his naked skin. “And somehow I feel it’s as though they got paler the less Heaven are pleased with what I do down here, you know?” He looked at Crowley for reassurance. “And I was thinking…maybe I’d become so little of an angel that the flowers that were supposed to only destroy you could nearly destroy me. What do you think?”

Crowley’s mouth stood slightly ajar.

“P-possible”, he sputtered and smiled.

“One thing I still wonder about, though”, Aziraphale pondered.

“What?”

“Why did it have to be _vintage purple roses_?”

“Because the Archangel Gabriel is a vain bastard, that’s why.” Crowley laughed bitterly.

Aziraphale looked at him in confusion.

“Because that type of rose is supposed to signify royalty and power, Angel. It’s nothing but a – a status thing.”

Aziraphale was still looking at him. But now his o-shaped little mouth slowly turned into a cheeky smile, and Crowley suddenly felt as though he had drunk too much bubble water.

For a long moment, they just sat and looked – maybe to let it sink in what had just happened and what it meant for their future, and maybe for utterly different reasons.

“Anyway”, Aziraphale said suddenly. “What do we do now?”

Crowley looked overwhelmed and shrugged.

“I still have some tea over in my shop, in case you’d like…”

“Tea”, muttered Crowley. “Uh, yes, tea sounds…great, actually, Angel.” He stood up so suddenly the chair was propelled backwards several feet on its wheels.

A moment later Crowley locked the shop door from the outside and they stepped out onto the road, into the rain. Now if you look very closely, you might see the ghostly shadow of a wing above Crowley’s head. And if you look even more closely, you might also see that their pinkies were locked.

\---

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it. If you did, come haunt me on [ Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/azirafeely) :)


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